


How to Train Your Arachnomorph

by clefairytea



Category: Wander Over Yonder
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clefairytea/pseuds/clefairytea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A trainer? An arachnomorph trainer,” Ripov repeated, “I knew you were a few cones and rods short of visual acuity, Watchdog, but that’s the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard.”</p>
<p>“Look, nobody knows more about those things than you!” Peepers cried, throwing out his arms.</p>
<p>“Yeah, and I know enough to say that anyone who thinks they can train an arachnomorph has taken one too many plasma bursts to the head,” she said, “The answer is no, Watchdog.”<br/>--<br/>In which Emily Ripov considers a career change. Featuring a bad-tempered arachnomorph, several gay Watchdogs, some sordid novels, bad music, and Commander Peepers' constantly elevated stress levels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Train Your Arachnomorph

**Author's Note:**

> "Clefairy, do you ever write anything that isn't really silly?"  
> "Hahahahaha. Nope."
> 
> Trying to figure out a way to write fic for such a visual cartoon in a way that didn't seem jarring was fun! The solution seemed to be 'write as though you're targeting the middle grade market'.

Hunting arachnomorphs had been Emily Ripov’s entire life. She had woken, fists clenched, back already drenched with sweat, dreaming about firing plasma burst after plasma burst into arachnoqueens’ drooling toothy faces every day for _years_. It was all that got her up in the morning, brought her to the firing range at 5am and pouring over maps and reports at 7am, until heading off to the most recent sighting, an entire artillery on her back.

So.

Without that.

She.

Well.

Well, she didn’t really know.

At one in the afternoon, Emily Ripov finished her first cup of coffee of the day and went to throw another log onto the fire. All out – emptier than a Slavorkan village after an arachnomorph nest hatching.

Ripov shuddered. That little village had never seen those little monsters coming. The second that first egg cracked – utter carnage. Those bloodthirsty monsters hadn’t stopped until every single man, woman, spotak, and child was dead in that little mountain town.

Yet that was her old life. She hoisted the axe over her shoulder and headed out into the woods for more firewood, snow crunching under her boots. These days, she lived from what she could gather – whatever funds she’d gathered from her time as a grizzled arachnomorph loner had long dwindled, and there wasn’t exactly much else for her. She’d even had to sell her ship – no use for it, these days, but that had still stung.

She had collected almost enough for the next few weeks when she heard a twig crack.

She stepped back, whipping her blaster out from her belt.

“Who’s there!”

A figure emerged from the trees.

A very, very, very small figure.

“You. You’re – you’re –“

Ripov’s memory failed her. One eye, stupid helmet, short? Ripov had met a million people like it. Though none that seemed to be _vibrating_ with as much pent-up rage. She’d never seen anyone who looked more in need of a good drink.

“I’ve seen you before,” she finished lamely, squinting, “You’re that Watchdog. The one always hanging around that Lord Hater idiot.”

“Commander Peepers,” the Watchdog said, offering a hand. Ripov glared at it.

“What are you here for?” she said. Peepers retracted the hand with a shrugged, shoving it back in the pocket of his coat.

“Well, you could say I have an arachnomorph problem.”

Ripov spat into the snow, and turned back to the log she was splitting, bringing down the axe with a hard thump.

“Sorry to spoil your fun, but I don’t do that anymore,” she said, “And don’t tell me ‘just one last job’. I’m retired. I mean it. Your calcified friend and his hairy ball of madness changed everything. I can’t go back to that life now.”

“It’s not that kind of job.”

“Whatever you’re offering, I ain’t buying,” Ripov said, and brought her axe through another piece of wood, “When we drove that mean green dame outta the galaxy, I hung up my blaster for good.”

The Watchdog tilted his head, shoulders slumping in a sigh.

“Are you like this all the time?”

“Like what?”

“Never mind. Listen. You remember Lord Hater’s…pet, right?”

“The little renegade? Yeah. I remember him,” she said, “Every time I twitch for the feeling of a knife sinking through flesh, the burn of a blaster in my palms, I remember him. Remember why I gave that all up, and what a lie I’d been living before that faithful day.”

“…Sure, yeah, let’s go with that,” he said, “Anyway, I need…someone to deal with him.”

“What about ‘retired’ don’t you understand, Watchdog?”

“Urgh, not – not deal with him as in kill him. I need a _trainer_.”

The axe flew out of Ripov’s hands. Peepers ducked – unnecessarily, the axe was about three feet above his head. Would have barely scraped the top of his helmet. It landed in the bark of a tree behind him with a thump and a trembling noise.

Ripov turned, hands on her hips.

“A trainer? An arachnomorph _trainer_ ,” Ripov repeated, “I knew you were a few cones and rods short of visual acuity, Watchdog, but that’s the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard.”

“Look, nobody knows more about those _things_ than you!” Peepers cried, throwing out his arms.

“Yeah, and I know enough to say that anyone who thinks they can train an arachnomorph has taken one too many plasma bursts to the head,” she said, “The answer is no, Watchdog.”

Ripov turned away to gather the chopped wood, and felt something gripping the bottom of her cargo pants. She looked down – the Watchdog was literally on his knees, hands tight on the hem of her pants.

“Please. I’m desperate. That – that little _monster_ has been causing more chaos to our budget and staffing than any enemy troops,” he said, tears actually forming in his eye, “I have tried _everything_. Please, Emily Ripov, you’re my only hope.”

Ripov tore herself from the Watchdog’s grip, gathering up the blocks of wood in her arms.

“I can pay you!”

Ripov paused.

“A lot.”

Ripov turned.

“How much?”

The Watchdog said a number.

 

“The décor on this ship is…limited,” Ripov noted, looking at yet another acrylic painting of Lord Hater, pictured muscular, menacing, and rippling with green, electric power. The skeleton _she_ remembered had been a simpering fool crying over his lost pet, and then a desperate hero scrambling to save the galaxy. Neither fit the image on any of the paintings, murals, tapestries or novelty mugs that seemed to occupy every corner of the ship.

“We have a theme, and we stick to it,” Peepers said, leading her to an elevator. Ripov snorted. A theme was decorating your bathroom with anchors and pictures of ships and seagulls. This was the sad obsession of man with an inferiority complex that would eclipse half the villain leaderboard’s.

They got off on the top floor of the Skullship. They passed dozens of Watchdogs, some hanging out at watercoolers, some cleaning, some maintaining the ship, some at computers or maintaining weapons, and one group that looks suspiciously as though they were playing tag. Peepers only paused minutely to bellow reprimands and orders, and then continued marching.

“We’ve tried everything. That little monster has lost us more Watchdogs than I know how to deal with, and with the Evil Strategist of the Year coming up…well, I can’t afford any more distractions,” he explained, very quickly. As they walked, Peepers took a cup of coffee from a Watchdog in the hall and drained it in one, tossing it over his shoulder. Ripov sprung out of the way and it hit some other Watchdog in the eye, earning a shrill scream.

Ripov wondered if the little guy had ever considered cutting back on his caffeine intake. He was more wound up than a teenage Clockwork-Girl of Ticktock Eight on the night before her prom.

“Now…we need to get this little issue under control,” Peepers said, “I’m not losing to that…that _jerk_ Captain Fingers again.”

“Captain Fingers,” Ripov repeated dryly.

“Emporer Awesome’s second in command, winner of Strategist of the Year three years running,” Peepers explained, and then glanced up at her, “Why are you pulling that face?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.

“Anyway, I am not letting that…that _flarplarber_ win again. Every year he wins, and every year at the Evil Henchman Charity Ball he rubs it in my face,” Peepers continued to rant, as though he’d been waiting for weeks to say this, “Not this year, not after what _we’ve_ went through. And no face-eating, acid-spitting little _pet_ is going to ruin this for me!”

“Have you considered…decaf?” she asked. Peepers glared at her and stopped outside of a door. There was a decal of Lord Hater’s face across it – not that that was particularly unusual on this ship. Every second thing had Lord Hater’s face on it. Ripov really hoped that she wouldn’t need to use the bathroom during her stay.

“This. Is Lord Hater’s room,” Peepers announced, with great ceremony, “Now our great leader can be a little…temperamental, so you are _not_ to enter without permission.”

“I got that from the sign,” Ripov said flatly, pointing at the piece of cardboard on the door, bearing the message ‘NO GIRLS (OR WANDER) ALLOWED’ in clumsy streaks of red marker, surrounded by a circle of jagged green lightning bolts.

“Yes, well,” Peepers said, clearing his throat, “Sir does have his eccentricities. Now. Lord Hater? Siiir? Are you awake in there? Sir? Sir? Sir? Sir!”

“ _Urgh!_ I’m coming, Peepers, _Grop_ ,” came a loud, whiny voice from behind the door. The door slid open to reveal a very sleep-looking evil-doer, still in his pyjamas, that hairy little monster held in one arm. “Seriously, Peepers, it’s like. Five in the morning.”

“It’s mid-afternoon, sir,” Peepers said matter-of-factly.

“Uuuurrgh, what- _eeeveeeer_ , it’s early to _me_ ,” Lord Hater groaned, and then glanced at Ripov, “What is _she_ doing here?”

“I’m here to deal with _that_ thing,” she said, nodding towards Captain Tim, still snoozing in Hater’s elbow. For a drooling murderous monster mostly composed of lips and teeth and hair and death, it was pretty cute.

“Tim-Tim?” Hater repeated, and then pulled Tim away from her, cradling the little monster against his chest, “Oh no, no way. You are _not_ getting a chance to hurt Tim-Tim.”

“No, sir, she’s here to help. Remember. We talked about this. Captain Tim’s…behavioural problems?” Peepers said desperately.

“Tim doesn’t have behavioural problems! The Watchdogs just need to learn to appreciate his individuality,” he insisted. The little individual woke up and began to snarl, dripping lucid green acid onto the floor, with hisses and rising plumes of steam.

Ripov was beginning to think that this was an _incredibly_ bad idea.

“Well, sir, you’re _so busy_ lately, domina- er, _conquering_ a whole new galaxy, dealing with your new fanbase, actually remembering the Watchdog’s names…so, I thought an arcachnomorph expert on staff might take some of the weight off your shoulders,” Peepers said, “Which, if I may say so, sir, are looking especially wide and imposing today.”

“Heh. Well I have been working out,” Hater said. Ripov rolled her eyes. After a second’s thought, Hater tutted and shrugged, “Fine. Fine. The Shepardian can stay. But if she lays a _finger_ on my Tim-Tim -”

“Then you are welcome to shove her out of an airlock yourself, sir,” Peepers said.

“Great. Now I need to get dressed. No peeking!” Lord Hater bellowed, and slammed the door closed. Peepers sighed, shoulder drooping.

“Right. Let’s…try to find you some assistants.”

 

Out of all the Watchdogs Commander Peepers screamed at, only four volunteered for Captain Tim duty. Harry, Alan, Stu, and Jenny. The rest scattered the second the T word was mentioned, squealing excuses about needing to wash their eyelashes or being busy with meetings the rest of the day, or just plain screaming and running as though the hounds of hell were on their heels.

The arachnomorph had a reputation, alright.

The four Watchdogs in her team were all new recruits – hired after the fight with Dominator. All starry-eyed over their leader, barely out of…whatever the Watchdog equivalent of high school was. If Ripov had been recruiting a team to eradicate a nest of broody arachnomorphs, they would have been the last people she’d pick. She could only hope the recruitment standards for training one of those little monsters were different.

“Right, here’s Tim-Tim. He takes a nap at around four, and this is favourite squeaky beeper, and sometimes he needs to go for a second walk, and don’t let him eat too much because he’s had a real bad tum-tum lately and –“ Hater said, handing her the fuzzy little monster, as well as far more toys than she even thought possible for any pet to own, least of all a barely-tame arachnomorph. The skeleton was still talking.

Ripov had met Aldoran 8 socialites with less elaborate care routines for their pets. She was half-expecting Hater to give her a tiny sweater to stuff the little beast into.

“Aaaanyway, I’m like, crazy busy being the greatest in the galaxy, so if you could just get little Tim-Tim –“

There was a scream. Little Tim-Tim had already latched his adorable teeth around Harry’s leg, wrenching hard and dribbling corrosive green oil into his flesh. Ripov darted over and wrenched Captain Tim off him, acid dripping onto her monster-handling gloves.

“Oh my grop, oh my leg, my leg, oooooh!” Harry screamed. Peepers sighed, snapped his fingers, and a pair of Watchdogs darted into the room with a stretcher, plopped Harry roughly onto it, and carried him off with little aplomb.

Well, that was one Watchdog down already.

“Riiight, anyway, if you have any problems… _keep them to yourselves!_ ” Hater barked, and then turned to leave.

There was something latched onto the back of his robe. Something orange and giggly.

“Uh, you’ve got –“ she began, when Peepers slapped a hand over her mouth, hissing.

“ _No_. Do _not_ tell him. If he realises Wander’s here, I might as well throw my whole plans for the day out of the window!”

Ripov stared at him.

“I got him on loan from the Zbornak,” Peepers explained, “This way, he stays out of sight, Lord Hater stays focused, and we don’t waste our whole day…I don’t know, playing ring toss games or spin the bottle or something!”

“…Is that something that happens regularly?”

“…Sometimes,” he admitted.

“You people are _crazy_.”

“Look, just get the arachnomorph under control in three days time,” Peepers said, holding three fingers up in front of her face, “Three days, Shepardian.”

“And then I get paid,” she said.

“Aaaand then you get paid,” he sighed, “Anyway. Good _luck_.”

“Luck is for Quadrant Five gamblers playing with the last of theirs snorflardy’s inheritance,” Ripov said, “I’m a _warrior_.”

Captain Tim sank his teeth into her palm. She hissed out a swear word that made a few nearby Watchdogs gasp. Swinging her arm in wild circles, she hurled the arachnomorph across the corridor, where it hit Stu in the face and sent the three Watchdogs into a scrambling panic.

“Sure, Ripov. Just…try to minimise your damage radius for the next few days.”

 

Emily Ripov had faced down the worst monsters in the galaxy and come out with barely more than a few battle scars and a prosthetic leg to show for it. She had travelled the galaxy, hunting down the monsters that had killed her crew and tore apart her life, and on the way she had seen carnage, mayhem, cruelty so cold she sometimes wondered whether that green horned lunatic had the right idea about this mixed-up awful galaxy to begin with.

None of that, _none_ of that prepared her for dealing with Captain Tim.

“Heel! Sit! Stay! Down boy!” she bellowed, shooting stun blasts down the hallway. Captain Tim leapt out of the way, swinging from the ceiling on a bright green string and latching onto some hapless scientist’s face, sinking his teeth into his retina. Ripov seized the arachnomorph and pulled hard, ignoring the horrified screaming and stomach-churning tearing sounds, until he came loose, little legs scrambling, teeth chomping, red lips snarling, and sending sizzling flecks of acid in every direction.

The scientist ran off before Ripov could even summon an apology. Captain Tim continued to hiss and thrash in her hands.

“What do you want!” she bellowed.

Tim only howled.

 “I think he misses Lord Hater, ma’am!” Jenny squeaked from by her ankle, decked from eyelid to toe in protective gear – goggles, gloves, boots, elbow and shoulder pads, bulletproof vest, helmet, whatever she had found, she had worn.

“Oooh, it’s such a lovely bond, don’t you think?” Alan said, clasping his hands in front of his face.

“Oh, _sure_! The classic tale of a skeleton and his ruthless killing machine!” Ripov screamed, holding tight onto Tim’s leash and being dragged on her belly down the hallway.

Stu emerged from the elevator, holding a steak the size of a baby zbornak over his head.

“T-Tim?” he stuttered, stepping forward and holding it out in his hands for the creature, “Din-dins.”

“Don’t hold it you idiot!” Ripov bellowed. It was too late. Tim launched forward and seized the steak in its teeth, taking one of Stu’s fingers with it. Stu screamed, Alan screamed, Ripov grabbed the Watchdog and the arachnomorph and attempted to pull them apart, bellowing curses.

An orange plasma blast zipped through the air with a whistling noise, hitting Captain Tim square in the thorax. It drooped in Ripov’s arms, teeth unclenching and dropping both steak and Watchdog. Stu rolled around on the floor, screaming and clutching his hand tight to his chest. Sans one finger.

She looked across at Jenny, holding Ripov’s blaster in her hand and chest wheezing up and down with deep, shaking breaths.

“Nice shot,” Ripov said, getting up and keeping Captain Tim tightly secured in her arms, scratching behind his lip. Half-dazed, the arachnomorph let off a low purr that vibrated against her chest. He wouldn’t stay peaceful for long – an arachnomorph could shake off a plasma blast quicker than a zbornak could shake off a hangover.

“I minored in marksmanship at college, ma’am,” Jenny mumbled, handing the blaster back.

“Oh, Stu, sweetie, I think you need to go to the infirmary,” Alan cooed, lifting Stu’s wrist to examine his hand and immediately gagging, “Oh that is…that is _nasty._ ”

“What? I can’t see, how bad is it?” Stu blathered.

“Wow, hard to believe that was once a hand,” Jenny commented.

“ _What?”_

“Another one bites the dust,” Ripov muttered, as Stu was dragged off by yet more Watchdog nurses, sobbing all the while about how this would affect his violin career.

“I don’t get it, little Tim-Tim is _so_ well-behaved around his Daddy,” Alan said, hands on hips.

“That doesn’t make sense. Arachnomorphs bow to nobody – even in their swarms, outside of feeding and nesting, they tear each other to shreds just for the sheer joy of it,” she muttered, “The question isn’t why does it behave like this with the Watchdogs, but why it isn’t _worse_.”

“ _Worse_?” Jenny spluttered, pupil dilating.

“Sure. You should all be arachnochow by now,” Ripov said, “Keeping a morph on a contained ship for _this_ long and still having any crew to speak of is unheard of. I saw a morph _half_ this size demolish the entire population of a small moon – all that was left were acid craters and half-eaten bones. I remember walking through the remains of one of those villages – all those homes half-destroyed and still in flames, the bodies littering the streets, the cries of the children left to rot. It -”

The two Watchdogs stared at her, both shaking.

Ripov really wondered why people looked at her like that so often. She cleared her throat, as Captain Tim began to stir in her arms.

“M-maybe we need to bond with him?” Alan suggested.

She held the morph up and looked at it, wishing it had some visible eyes or something to look at.

“Bonding, huh? Worth a shot.”

 

Things that arachnomorphs do not like, a list by Emily Ripov:

  * Fetch is not a game arachnomorphs enjoy. At least not with sticks. With Watchdogs though? Surprisingly effective and fun.
  * (Not so much for the Watchdogs.)
  * Tummy rubs. Do not give an arachnomorph a tummy rub. Do not do it.
  * Laser pointers. Dear grop. The laser pointer was a mistake. No matter how many hits on Sine you get, showing an arachnomorph a laser pointer is not worth it.
  * The word ‘vet’.
  * Nobody else enjoys this venture very much either.
  * Emily Ripov. Arachnomorphs do not like Emily Ripov.



Things that arachnomorphs arguably _do_ like:

  * Lord Hater.
  * That squeaky toy thing.
  * Meat.



“This…isn’t exactly a comprehensive report, is it?” Jenny said, looking over Ripov’s shoulder at the list she was working on. Alan couldn’t see – he was holding a bag of frozen peas over his eye, where the arachnomorph had hurled itself during his misguided attempt to give the flarping thing a bath.

“This is what we’ve got from the day’s work,” she replied, “And all information is good information. It’ll put us in a better position tomorrow when we’re trying to build its trust.”

“Oh. Tomorrow,” Jenny said, visibly deflating, “We’re doing this again…tomorrow.”

Ripov looked at her long and hard.

“Yes. You knew this when you signed up, soldier,” she said, “If you’re having second thoughts –“

“No, ma’am! Just…need to get a good night’s rest for tomorrow’s work!” she replied quickly, snapping into a stiff-backed salute. Ripov dismissed her with a nod and the Watchdog dashed off. Ripov watched her go – why someone would half-heartedly sign up to deal with one of those little monsters was beyond her. Recruitment had always been the hardest part of her mission. Why she usually went it alone.

“Oh don’t worry about Jenny, ma’am, she’s just stressed at the moment! She has a lot going on,” Alan said cheerfully, lifting the bag of peas from his eye to give her what Ripov could only assume was an encouraging look.

“Hm. Soldier. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Fire away, ma’am!”

“Why’d you sign up for this mission?” she said, folding her arms, “You don’t exactly seem like the grizzled monster-hunter type.”

“Well, you are right about that ma’am! I don’t even like using my blaster if I can help it,” he said, “I just _love_ animals. When I was a little Watchpup, all I wanted was to open my own pet-grooming salon on our home planet.”

“Uh…huh. And you ended up an evil henchman instead?” Ripov said, raising an eyebrow and placing a hand on her hip, “Doesn’t exactly follow.”

“Oh, well, my parents didn’t exactly think pet groomer was a good career choice,” he replied, sounding embarrassed, “And then the Hater Empire was recruiting, and there was a _Watchdog_ as second-in-command. I don’t know if you know much about our species, ma’am, but that’s quite the big deal! So before I knew it they were signing me up.”

She thought for a second – it would be easy to tell him it was the better option. She’d never exactly met many successful Watchdog businessmen across the galaxy, and Watchdogs weren’t exactly big enough to deal with the kind of pets popular these days. Yet getting bullied into a job you didn’t want – bit pathetic, really. Maybe that was a bit harsh though.

“Sounds like you got bullied into it,” Ripov said finally.

“Well, I suppose so, ma’am!” he said, “But maybe if I can succeed with _this_ little guy, I can springboard my career from there. Oooor…I can stay on the Skullship forever doing a job I hate for below minimum wage and advancing the cause of an evil dictator whose totalitarian leadership style, violent conflict resolution strategies, and extreme political leanings I implicitly disagree with and every day feel dirtier and dirtier about my tacit involvement in such a destructive campaign that’s slowly eroding what little political, social, and economic stability the galaxy has left… Either way works!”

“Uh.”

Ripov didn’t know what to say to that.

“…I should go,” she said finally.

“Okiedokey, ma’am! See you bright and early tomorrow morning!” Alan said, waving her away and placing the bag of peas bag back onto his face.

 

With most of the troops deployed on Nebulon Five and its orbiting moons for conquering, Ripov and her team had most of the ship to themselves the next day.

This was great for minimising Watchdog casualties, not so great for the ship itself.

“Down, boy, down!” Jenny called, dragging back on his leash. It was meant to be a command. It sounded more like a plea. Captain Tim paid no heed, still jumping all over a huge iron statue of Lord Hater, biting chunks out of his face and shoulders and spraying acid down his torso.

“Aw, he just misses his Dada,” Alan said, watching as Captain Tim ripped his Dada’s metal arm off and tossed it across the corridor. Ripov ducked and it hit the back wall with a _clang_ , leaving a harsh outline of Lord Hater’s bony arm.

“He was fine until Hater left,” Ripov admitted, seizing Jenny by the waist and pulling, dragging Captain Tim from the statue’s shoulder and onto the floor with a soft thump. He landed on his back and then leapt up, scuttling in circles, hissing.

The little monster _did_ seem agitated.

That was ludicrous, though. An arachnomorph forming attachment, that Ripov had managed to convince herself of. She’d seen the little thing rubbing up against his master’s chin, purring, accepting little treats and sleeping all nice in his bed. As unlikely as it was, seemed like the little beasts were capable of affection after all.

But an ararchnomorph with _separation anxiety_ was something entirely more absurd.

“Maybe one of us should wear one of sir’s old cloaks?” Alan suggested.

“I’d rather deal with a rowdy Captain Tim than one of Hater’s tantrums if we stain it or something,” Jenny muttered, straining on the leash to try to keep Tim still. That only seemed to agitate him more – he spat and scratched at himself, before leaping for Jenny. Ripov shoved her out of the way and Tim’s leash came flying from her hand.

The arachnomorph took all of a second to take stock of his new-found freedom, before bolting down the corridor, acid lashing from its mouth as it went and hissing against the walls, ceiling and floor.

The three of them sighed, and took chase.

 

Captain Tim had, somehow, managed to get himself stuck on top of a tall, steel cabinet, curled up with his hairy legs tucked under him.

“Oh, oh no. The Commander will not be pleased if he’s messed with his filing,” Alan murmured, looking at the bite and scratch marks peppering the metal, “We need to get it down.”

“Hm. Looks fairly peaceful up there to me,” Ripov said, frowning. It made sense – a lot of the wild arachnomorphs she’d hunted had favoured mountains, webs stretched across deep dark canyons, clustering together atop half-ruined skyscrapers. High places where they had plenty of places to spin webs, plenty of crevices to tuck themselves into.

Being in a cramped space ship, all clean corridor and smooth metal, no spaces at hide or make webs, with lots of unknown entities towering over you…well, that couldn’t exactly be any arachnomorph’s idea of a picnic.

“Wait –“

Ignoring her, Alan drew the orange squeaky toy from his holster (he didn’t often carry his blaster), and gave it a few tentative squeaks. The arachnomorph tensed, peering down at Alan and releasing a low growl.

Jenny (who always carried her blaster) drew her weapon, turned the dial to stun, and trained it cautiously on the arachnomorph. The arachnomorph bared its teeth.

“Stand down, soldiers!”

Alan squeaked the toy again.

Jenny fired her blaster.

Captain Tim leapt from the top of the filing cabinet, screeching.

Ripov cursed and threw herself into the chaos, attempting to tear the three of them apart. Tim bit her hard on the elbow. She ripped him off, and he latched onto Jenny’s rear. She screamed, and fired another shot that knocked the cabinet over with a hard clatter, sending carefully colour-coded files and papers in every direction. Tim screamed, spraying acid and shredding pieces of paper with his teeth. Alan kept squeaking the toy, crying out ‘Good boy, good boy, good boy!’.

Captain Tim tore away from all three of them and landed a few feet away, the squeaky toy in his teeth. Jenny aimed her blaster again and Ripov knocked it from her hand.

“Come on, boy, come back,” Alan said gently.

“ _Give me my blaster!”_ Jenny screamed.

“Will you two calm down for _one seco-“_

Tim ran away.

 

“Are you two _completely stupid_?” Ripov roared. Jenny and Alan looked down at the ground, scuffing their boots against the floor. “Is there no military training on this ship at all? You wait for your commanding officer’s word before you act, and you don’t both do _completely contradictory things_.”

Ripov remembered she had never liked working in teams. Being a commander had never suited her half as well as traversing the stars alone, a lone warrior dedicated to eradicating a foul evil from the galaxy.

Not to mention her crew had an unfortunate habit of, well, dying. That happened around arachnomorphs a lot.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just thought maybe if little Tim had his squeaky beeper he’d –“

“Ma’am, the monster was clearly aggressive and about to –“

“ _Enough_!” she snapped, “You disobey orders, you charge into danger, and you act impulsively! The arachnomorph is now loose on the ship with _no means of finding it_. When the Commander comes back I’m having you both taken off my team – I’ll do this alone.”

“No, ma’am!” Jenny blurted out, grabbing the hem of Ripov’s trousers, “Please, don’t! I _need_ this bonus, you don’t understand, I -”

“No, I don’t want to go back to conquering! Ma’am, please!” Alan squealed.

Ripov was taking a breath to begin yelling at them again, when the door behind her slid open. Both Watchdogs snapped to attention, holding themselves in straight-shouldered salutes – albeit Alan did his with the wrong hand. Commander Peepers walked in, looking very cheerful.

“Ah, there you are. Well, the Nebulon Five mission went even more smoothly than I expected – they almost seemed _happy_ to have Lord Hater in charge. They really should make an effort to cower a bit more though,” he said, and then shrugged, sitting himself down and putting his feet up on the console, “Now, how’s Captain Tim’s training?”

Ripov grimaced. He asked that like she’d only been tasked with teaching a Petulian flower-poodle how to shake and roll-over on command.

“I want –“ she began, and then felt two pairs of hands gripping the back of her shirt. She glanced over her shoulder – both Watchdogs were fixing her with watery-eyed stares, knees trembling, pupils huge and shiny.

Grop flarpin’ dangit.

Watchpuppy eyes. She’d heard about that. Impossible to resist. Taking a breath, she decided to change tactics.

“The arachnomorph’s missing.”

“Oh, well that’s just gr- wait, what, _missing!_ ” Peepers screamed. The two Watchdogs stepped back. Ripov only folded her arms, glaring down at Peepers. “How can it be missing – it’s just _loose on the ship_?”

“The ship is the problem. Or, at least part of the problem.”

“What?” he said.

“The ship. This is nothing like an arachnomorph’s habitat,” Ripov continued. Peepers gawked at her. Jenny and Alan gawked at her as well.

“That is just –“ Peepers began.

“If you want to keep this thing on your ship, and keep it under control, you need to change the ship. The environment is…stressful for him,” she said, barely able to believe she was _saying_ these things. Yet it was true – everything she’d observed so far indicated that, apart from when his master was home, Captain Tim was highly stressed. He was on a ship nothing like his natural habitat, being dragged around by Watchdogs, shot at with blasters, and forced to act in a way completely contrary to his nature.

“Ridiculous! I am _not_ changing my beautifully blueprinted ship for –“

_Incoming call from…Captain Fingers_ , a cool, robotic voice interrupted.

“Oh, oh no. You three, get out of sight!” Peepers snapped, turning towards a monitor on the wall. Jenny dragged Ripov down by the wrist, the three of them huddled behind a desk. On the monitor, a Fist Fighter in a particularly gaudy uniform appeared.

Peepers and Captain Fingers began talking, very quickly. Ripov couldn’t understand a word – Fist Fighters spoke in a silent, complex sign language, and Ripov had never really picked up anything beyond ‘Hello’, ‘Goodbye’ or ‘Where is the arachnomorph nest?’ in it. Peepers didn’t seem to have any problems keeping up, though, if his furious gestures and angry mutterings were anything to go by.

After a moment of furious, silent conversation, Peepers slammed his fists on the console.

“ _You take that back about my mother!_ ”

Captain Fingers made a gesture that even Ripov understood very clearly.

Screeching with fury, slammed the red ‘End call’ button with his fist. The screen darkened with a ‘blip!’. Although not before Captain Fingers managed to get yet another unmistakable gesture.

“That smug flarping little – fine! Shepardian, _maybe_ I’ll listen to your suggestions, just find that little monster and keep it under control another day! I want blueprints of your ideas as well,” he said, and sighed, kneading circles into the side of his eye, “I’m going to have to…go find sir and make up an excuse for Tim’s absence. You better know what you’re doing.”

 

Emily Ripov could live off two hours sleep across a whole week. When you were the lone woman on a tiny dwarf planet, with only an tiger arachnomorph for company, survival was only possible when you could push your body to its limits. An arachnomorph didn’t need to sleep, or rest, or wash. An archnomorph didn’t care that it was sore, or tired, or lonely. It only cared about tearing its enemy to shreds. To fight them, Ripov had needed to be the same.

Yet.

Still.

It had been a while since she’d killed the tiger arachno of Slorthon Seven.

And running around the Skullship _all night_ was exhausting.

Alan and Jenny, however, were fully rested and cheerful by the time she turned up at the food court for breakfast. Alan merrily filled her coffee and scraped sausages and fried eggs onto her plate, while Jenny showed her some of the arachnomorph anatomy diagrams she’d dug up from the internet overnight – apparently oblivious to the fact Ripov’s signature was in the corner of each one.

“You look tired, ma’am,” Alan said, halving a grapefruit and sliding over her a piece on an eyeball-patterned plastic plate.

“Up all night trying to find the arachnomorph,” she said, shoving the entire grapefruit half in her mouth at once, ignoring the Watchdogs’ alarmed glances. The peel was a good source of fibre. Besides, she liked to practice eating tough foods – it was an essential skill in a survival situation.

Explaining this didn’t make either Watchdog look less incredulous. What were they teaching these new military squirts, exactly?

“No luck, huh?” Jenny asked sympathetically. Ripov only grunted, chugging her cup of coffee and then thrusting it towards Alan for a refill.

“This much caffeine’s bad for your digestion, you know,” he said reprovingly, but refilled it anyway.

“It didn’t go back to Lord Hater’s chambers.“

Though the word ‘chambers’ wasn’t really warranted – it had looked more like a teenage boy’s bedroom. Complete with the discarded laundry and half-eaten food on the floor. And the screaming moron slamming his laptop closed, blushing, and bellowing ‘ _Get out of my room, Grop!!!’_ the second you set foot there.

Ripov drummed her fingers on the table, trying to think where she hadn’t looked. The issue was that the Skullship was huge, and Commander Peepers’ map didn’t even seem particularly accurate. For one, Peepers’ maps were far more _sensible_ than the actual ship. There must have been dozens of little corridors and nonsensical rooms (Ripov had stumbled across an _“I-hate-Wander”_ room, for Grop’s sake) that she hadn’t managed to find.

“Is there anywhere on the ship that’s dark, high ceilings, lots of places to hide.”

“Can’t say I know anywhere like that, ma’am,” Jenny said, shrugging, “The barracks might count – but if Tim had been in _there_ …well, uh…someone would have noticed.”

“Wellll…there might be somewhere,” Alan said slyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What?”

“Hehe. Well, there is Smooching Room Four.”

“…Smooching Room Four,” Ripov repeated, wishing she could at least be surprised.

“Why do _you_ know what it’s like inside Smooching Room Four?” Jenny asked.

“Heeheehee, well,” Alan said, glancing and waving coquettishly at a Watchdog on another table, who abruptly slopped coffee down his front.

“Take us there,” Ripov ordered, “Now.”

 

Ripov had explored the dreaded Swamp Mines of Moldorio, armed with nothing but a toothpick and her own raw instincts. She had fought arachnomorphs on the fiery craters of Vesuvinom Seven, the grit stinging her eyes and the fire storm scorching sweeping scars across her body. She had single-handedly picked off every last rancid arachnomorph on the nuclear planet of Wastoria, dodging the swooping fangs and dread gaze of the Wastoria angels the whole time. She had survived through countless horrors, with only her nightmares and her stories to show for them.

Yet Smooching Room Number Four was by far the most horrifying place she’d ever set foot in.

Every single surface was either pink, plushy, glittery, covered in hearts, or some combination of the above. The amount of shag carpeting was filling her hair with static, and the music, a repetitive slow beat, felt as though it was drumming a beat of madness in her own mind. Beside the plush sofas, the glittering disco balls high overhead, and the occasional untouched-looking bed, there were rows and rows of shelves that Ripov discovered were full of novels such as _Passion in the Ocean Deserts of Splendoria_ and _Aching for my Weremorph Lover: A Tale of Forbidden Desire_.

“This is _awful_ ,” Jenny said.

“Tacky, yes, but very functional,” Alan replied, giggly.

“We’re here on a mission, soldier. No distractions,” Ripov reprimanded him.

“Of course. _Serious_ ,” Alan said, very seriously waving away the glittery pink rose petal falling from above.

Ripov glanced around, taking in the room. The narrow gaps between the shelves, the shadows cast by the decorations and sofas, the high ceiling, the thin light from the disco balls – slowly shifting, almost cave-like. While Ripov highly doubted this could attract the kind of person Lord Hater _wanted_ in this room, it could attract a startled, stressed-out arachnomorph.

If Ripov strained her ears, she could hear a faint squeaking noise. She held up a palm and pointed a finger to her ear. The two Watchdogs leaned, and Alan slapped a hand against his eye. Jenny’s hand strayed toward her holster, for just a second, before she caught herself. Ripov nodded at her, and gestured at the two of them to check between the shelves.

They split up, taking a lane between the shelves each. Ripov could hear the squeaking, faint and insistent, growing louder as she moved slowly through the sordid stacks.

“ _Ma’am, found anything yet?”_ Jenny yelled.

Ripov really wished she’d stopped to grab them walkie-talkies or something. The squeaking stopped, and there was a scuttling noise, a hissing. A shadow flashed by the end of the shelf, and Ripov took chase, more out of instinct than anything else. Captain Tim rushed off, and disappearing under a plush, heart-shaped bed with a screech.

The Watchdogs came rushing up behind her – Ripov spread out her arms, stopping them in their tracks.

“ _Gently_ , this time,” she ordered. They nodded. The mattress jostled and bounced, and Ripov could hear Captain Tim snarling underneath it.

The squeaky toy was on the floor by Ripov’s feet. She scooped it up and moved forward, one slow step after another. She crouched and placed the squeaky toy on the floor, just near the bed.

The mattress stopped moving. Behind her, she could practically feel Alan and Jenny holding their breaths.

A furry leg poked out from the bottom of the bed, stretching out and just brushing against the toy.

Another leg joined it.

“Aaaattaboy,” Ripov urged him quietly.

“He’s doing it!” Alan squealed, far too loudly

The mattress bounced again, and a crooning love song that sounded suspiciously as though it was sung by Lord Hater began to play. The mattress began to rotate, a strobe light dropped from the ceiling and began to flash.

Captain Tim screamed and shredded the bed to pieces around him, before rushing off, the bookshelves crashing down as he want.

“Alan, turn that off!” Ripov boomed, “Jenny, with me! _No shooting!_ ”

Ripov and Jenny rushed after Tim, who was screaming and tearing things to pieces indiscriminately. Alan leapt on the bed and attempted to get it under control.

_Aaaaand IIIII can’t belieeeeeeve –_

“Alan, turn it off!” Jenny yelled, “I can’t take any more of these lyrics!”

_I loaaathe you and yeeeeeeeeet -_

“I’m trying,” he squealed, dragging a remote from under the bed and jabbing at it frantically.

Finally, the bed stopped spinning, the strobe light stopped flashing, and Lord Hater’s less-than-soothing tones cut off.

Captain Tim still looked agitated, hopping on the spot and spitting. They had him backed into a corner. Jenny approached, muttering what sounds suspiciously like a string of swear words and ‘I swear this bonus better be worth it’.

Captain Tim reared back and then shot a length of lurid green webbing from his rear. Ripov dodged, but it hit Jenny and sent her sprawling back, stuck against the wall with her arms splayed.

“Jen!” Alan said, running towards them. Captain Tim fired some more webbing and threw Alan back too, landing next to Jenny with a wet splat.

“Well…that was great, Al,” she commented dryly.

“I – I tried!”

There was only Ripov and the arachnomorph – how it had always ended up. Captain Tim backed away from her, into a corner, snarling. It looked ready to attack.

Ripov glanced behind her, but the squeaky toy was too far away for her to grab it without leaving the Watchdogs at the mercy of an agitated arachnomorph. Not worth an attempt.

Captain Tim arched his back, saliva hissing from his lips in long dribbly lines.

An attack was inevitable.

Ripov threw aside her blaster and dropped to all fours.

“Fine then, come on!” she barked.

Captain Tim charged at her, throwing himself against her. She tumbled back, snapping her teeth and grabbing hold of his leg. He squeezed himself free and jumped on her shoulder, sinking his teeth into her flesh. She tugged him off and tumbled over, holding him underneath her. Tim pushed her back, flipping her onto her back and leapt onto her chest, growling. Tiny flecks of acid fell from his lips, sizzling against her skin. She gritted her teeth, ignoring it.

Captain Tim loomed over her, teeth bared.

“Ma’am!” the Watchdogs called.

Captain Tim licked her face.

“Ha! Knew it! Knew a scrap was what you needed!” Ripov called, standing up and holding the arachnomorph in her arms. She rubbed her knuckles through his fur, rough and affectionate. He settled down, thorax rumbling as he purred.

Ripov had always found the feeling of an arachnomorph’s fur repulsive, tied up as it was in violence and carnage and destruction.

It felt different now.

“Ma’am?” Jenny asked. Ripov turned, letting Tim climb onto her shoulder, pressing up against her cheek. She looked at the bottle-green webbing holding them in place, waxy and gleaming in the dim light.

“Right, uh. Either of you got a laser blade handy?”

 

“Tim-tim!” Lord Hater greeted them, whipping Captain Tim from her shoulder and into his arms. Tim squeaked and slobbered with delight, legs flailing, and latched himself onto his master’s face with eager, affectionate snaps of his jaws. Commander Peepers could only goggle as it leapt from Hater to Ripov’s shoulder, purring.

“You calmed it down?” he said, staring at her, “ _How?”_

“Yo, Peeps!” interrupted a broad, familiar voice. A Zbornak cut her way through the crowd, walking up to Lord Hater as though he _wasn’t_ an incredibly powerful military dictator with territories and armies at his command. “How’d the contest go?”

Peepers sighed.

“Well, it was all going well but then…I punched Fingers. Disqualified. For unsportsmanship,” he said, tutting, “It’s an _evil strategist_ contest! Like sportsmanship should really matter.”

The Zbornak snickered.

“Thought as much. Anyway, I’m just here to pick up Wander,” she said, and then pulled the orange fuzzy…whatever-he-was from Lord Hater’s back, placing him firmly on her own, “There you go buddy. Have a good time?”

“ _Wander!_ ” Lord Hater squawked, “What are _you_ doing here!? Peepers, how long has he been there?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Peepers replied, in an almost convincing impersonation of innocence.

“Oh, it was great, Syl. We cuddled for three days straight!”

“Really,” the Zbornak replied, looking deeply amused.

“What! No! I didn’t even know you were there! That does not count as c-cu- urgh!”

“You slept pretty well,” the orange guy said, fluttering his eyelashes.

“ARGH!”

Ripov was certain. These people were totally nuts.

Peepers, sighing, seemed to have come to much the same conclusion as her, leaving. He turned to Ripov, leaving the Zbornak, the weird friendly tangerine, and Lord Hater to their nonsense.

“Really though, how did you get _that_ to listen to you?” he asked, gesturing to the arachnomorph quite happily cuddled in her arms. Ripov shrugged.

“Sometime you need to play with someone the way they want to be played with, not the way you think they should,” she said, and then thrust a wad of papers in Peepers’ face, “Based on my knowledge of arachnomorph habits, _these_ adjustments should make your ship more habitable.”

“These look…very expensive,” Peepers said.

“You want Tim to stop destroying things or not, eyeball?” Ripov replied. Peepers sighed and rolled the blueprints up, pocketing them.

“Yes, I do, in fact,” he said, pausing and giving the arachnomorph a strange look., “…Can I try holding him?”

Ripov glaned down at Captain Tim, blissfully still and peaceful in her arms. Deceptively so – she had helped, but she hadn’t exactly _cured_ him.

“…Not sure in good conscience I can allow that yet, Commander.”

Even though it would be _hilarious_.

She handed the arachnomorph back to Lord Hater, who looked green in the bony cheeks and irritable from his conversation with the sunshine toilet brush.

“ _What are you all hanging around for?_ ” he screamed, finally noticing the amount of Watchdogs staring at him, “ _Get back to work!_ ”

Back to work.

Hm.

She supposed there was probably more training she could do with Captain Tim. At least until Peepers finished making the changes to the ship. Then what, though?

She felt something tugging on her sleeve. She looked down to see Jenny beside her, thrusting a thick, ivory-white envelope toward her.

Squinting, Ripov took it and opened it with a swipe of her new laser knife. The stationary within was just as thick and fancy.

_Dear Ms Emily Ripov,_

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Ms Jenny Sighter and –_

_“This_ is what you needed that bonus for?” she said, holding the invitation aloft and pointing at it. Jenny blushed.

“The centrepieces we picked were really expensive,” she murmured, “Ma’am, if you could make it to the wedding, we’d –“

“ _Someone’s getting married?_ ” the hairy carrot screeched, leaping onto Ripov’s shoulders and ripping the envelope from her hands. Behind them, the Zbornak sighed.

 

Ripov didn’t really understand Watchdog wedding ceremonies – there was a lot of talk about seeing and looking and watching one another, a lot of elaborate eyeshadow palettes, and a lot of soulfully gazing at one another. She supposed that if your species only had one distinctive feature, there wasn’t a whole lot else to go on.

Judging by the ginger toilet brush’s inconsolable sobbing throughout the whole affair, though, it was a very nice ceremony. And the reception decorations were, at the very least, much more tasteful than the Smooching Room’s.

Leaning against a back wall, arms folded over her chest, Ripov waited for her chance to say a quick congratulations to the bride so she could slip out later.. Big parties weren’t exactly her scene.

She finally found an in when Jenny finished chatting to one of the guys from accounting, slipping in to extend a hand towards her.

“Ma’am, nice to see you!” she said, shaking her hand furiously and then dragging her new wife forward. The smaller Watchdog squeaked, looking Ripov up and down. Ripov scratched the back of her head – she _had_ tried to look less scary for the occasion. Apparently that wasn’t her strong suit. “Millie, this is Ms Ripov, she helped us with Captain Tim.”

“N-Nice to meet you,” she said, looking terrified.

“Yeah. Well. Congrats. It was, uh. Nice,” she said, trying to find something to say, “Really good centrepieces.”

Millie brightened up.

“Thanks! Jenny really didn’t want them but I said –“

“Urgh, Peepers I don’t _wanna!_ ” whined a loud voice.

“She is one of your finest troops and you are going to congratulate her, eat some cake, and generally be a good leader!” snapped a nasally voice. Ripov looked up to see Peeper dragging Lord Hater into the reception hall by the wrist. On a leash was Captain Tim, looking shiny and well-groomed for the occasion. Ripov guess who was behind that.

“But this is boring and _lame_ ,” he hissed.

“Sir, it’s important to keep up morale. This is a perfect opportunity to do just that,” Peepers replied, glaring up at him and looking remarkably like an exasperated mother Ripov had seen in a supermarket once. One whose toddler had thrown himself on the floor screaming and kicking all eight of his legs.

“Sir, you came!” Jenny said breathlessly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lord Hater muttered, glancing back and forth, “Congrats, I guess. So, where’s the groom?”

The brides looked at one another. Peepers buried his face in his hands.

“There isn’t a groom,” Jenny said.

“Then who are you marrying?” he asked.

“This is Millie. She’s the bride.”

“Then who is _she_ marrying?”

“I’m also the bride!”

“Then who are _you_ marrying?”

“Sir…” Peepers began, sounding extremely tired. Ripov decided to leave them to it, only just catching Hater boom ‘ _You can DO that!?’_ as she disappeared into the crowd.

She would catch up with Captain Tim later; there was someone else she wanted to talk to first.

Alan was at his table, regaling a group of Watchdogs with some story that was reducing them all to hysterics. She caught the phrase ‘Smooching Room Four’. Ripov cleared her throat.

“Ma’am!” he blurted out, slopping his glass of champagne. The other Watchdogs gawked at her, some backing away. Seriously – was she that scary?

“What are you _wearing_?” Alan squeaked, before Ripov could get another word out. Ripov looked down at her outfit, frowning.

“This is traditional Shepardian formal garb,” she said, “What else do you wear to one of these things?”

“It’s _armour_ , ma’am! You look like you’re off to war!” he said, “I mean…is the sword necessary?”

“…It’s traditional?” Ripov said, squinting. Really, what was the issue here? The other Watchdogs coughed and made their excuses, some off to the bar, others to the bathroom, others back to the buffet table, leaving her and Alan by themselves. Good – this was an awkward topic to broach, and she didn’t really want an audience.

“Listen, soldier,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’m thinking of recruiting crewmembers for a new campaign.”

“New campaign?” Alan said, tilting his head.

“After our recent success with the arachnomorph, I’ve come to the conclusion many could benefit from similar action across the galaxy,” she said, very quickly, “There’s a lot of little monsters going misunderstood out there.”

“Ma’am, a-are…are you starting a _pet training_ service?” he asked, looking torn between incredulity and wonder.

“…Something like that, yeah,” she replied, “And I need skilled crew. It’ll be hard work, and dangerous, but –“

“Ma’am!” Alan squeaked, grabbing her hands and leaping to his feet on his chair, “There is literally _nothing_ I want to do more!”


End file.
